Page 37 of Castaway Whirlwind
“Layla! Oh god, darlin’, yes!” I shiver as I wring as much cum out of me as I can, all of which lands perfectly in the center of her. I shudder, eyes locked on her pussy with the overwhelming desire to yank the fabric aside so I can stuff every drop of my cum inside of her.
I groan, another rope of cum working its way out of my shaft, landing on her slim fingers after she reaches between her legs with a gasp, swiping through my release. A well of possession makes it impossible to think of anything other than claiming my little darlin’ once and for all. Flipping the bottom of her nightgown up, I grab her hips to jerk her closer.
“Daddy?” She stares at me around her shoulder, her big doe eyes swirling with the kind of passion I’ve longed to see when I hook my fingers in her thong’s waistband and tug.
And in the next second, I yank Layla off the bed and flatten her on the floor, shielding her when one of the glass doors explodes.
* * *
I’m an idiot for not being more vigilant after the vandalism at BT and Granny’s. I have motion sensors all around my property line and house—all of which ping my phone. I had put it on Do Not Disturb since I didn’t want any interruptions,and I bet I have more than a few missed notifications.
I point to the closed door at the end of our short, private hallway. “Lock yourself in the bathroom. Now.”
Layla doesn’t argue, keeping low as she sprints away. The fear on her face just about does me in, and I’m murderous when I follow a pace behind her, swinging left into our closet with my phone in hand. I call Sheriff first, then Elliott, while punching in my gun safe’s code.
My first instinct when someone threatens my family is to hunt them down. But I won’t leave Layla alone, protected only by a flimsy lock, so I stand guard, peering around the mouth of the hallway with my shotgun aimed at the broken door, ready to shoot at the first thing that moves. Shattered glass litters the floor and the end of the bed around the large black rock taken from the landscaping around our pool.
I don’t lower my weapon when sirens grow louder in the distance—only when I hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie and Sheriff announces himself from around the corner, having told him to meet me at the back of the house.
“Russell,” Sheriff says with his hands on his belt while his three deputies—Allen, Green, and Cooke—step into our bedroom, glass crunching beneath their boots, then fan out in the rest of the house. He nods to the hallway behind me. “Is Layla in there?” When I nod, he tells her, “You can come out now, honey.”
Though I’d prefer to keep her inside until we get the all-clear, she unlocks the door and opens it before I can tell her to stay put.
Sheriff’s brows lift to his cowboy hat when she steps to my side in her tiny nightgown—just one of the thirty or so I’ve purchased for her and have kept folded in our closet, longingfor the day I’d see her wear them.
“Thought you said she wasn’t your woman.” Sheriff gives me a grin wholly inappropriate for this grave situation. I grin right back when Layla doesn’t correct him.
I step in front of her, blocking Deputy Allen’s sight, then Green’s and Cooke’s when they rejoin us in the bedroom.
Cooke gives me a shrewd look, then holds up her phone, showing a picture she took of Layla’s car. “Her windshield is caved in. Looks like someone stomped on it with a boot.”
Layla cries softly, her forehead pressed to my back. I want nothing more than to hug and comfort her, but not in front of our audience with her dressed the way she is.
Everyone except Deputy Cooke—even me and Sheriff—startle when Elliott appears out of thin air holding a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. Cooke pulls her service weapon, aiming it at Elliott’s chest as she backs away toward the broken door. “Put the gun down, now!”
Elliott doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Put it away, Cooke,” Sheriff orders. “It’s just Elliott.” Sheriff chuckles. “Big scary bastard. Wish you’d taken me up on my offer to come work for me all those years ago.”
Elliott grunts. “You know why I couldn’t.”
Sheriff’s smile falters. “Right, right. Forgot about that.”
“Doubt he’d fit in a cruiser, anyway,” Deputy Green jokes, immediately going silent and poking the landscaping rock with his boot when Elliott fixes his disgruntled glare on him.
Joshua Green is a newbie, maybe a year or two younger than Layla, with tightly coiled, short black hair. Though he’s lived here all his life, he apparently doesn’t know much about Elliott. If he did, he’d know that no one wants to find themselves in Elliott’s crosshairs.
Cooke glances sideways at Sheriff for less than a second before returning to Elliott, visibly bewildered, still keeping aim. “Hand it over.”
“No,” Elliott says simply, though he does point it at the floor.
Cooke’s brows pinch, looking at Sheriff again. “That gun is illegal in Texas.”
“What gun?” Sheriff asks, scratching his temple. “Do you see a gun?” he asks no one in particular.
Allen huffs, and Green, perhaps trying to get back on Elliott’s good side, catches on and answers, “Nope. Not a thing, Sheriff.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Cooke finally holsters her weapon. “Bunch of old—” She clears her throat, stopping herself, earning one of Elliott’s rare half-smiles.
